Merry Christmas
by bassgoddess
Summary: A one shot of Sherlock and Molly during the Christmas scene from season 2.  It's how I thought it should have gone.


Takes place right after Sherlock is teasing Molly about her Christmas present, and then he realizes its for him. You have to imagine they aren't interrupted by his phone.

* * *

><p>"You always say such horrible things," she started her voice almost breaking.<p>

"Every time. Always...always...," Molly had to stop speaking because she was afraid the tears would start to fall in front of everyone at Christmas dinner. Her stomach lurched as she realized that he knew what she felt about him. She was about to turn and run out of the room when he stopped her.

"I am sorry. Forgive me," he said, taking a step closer to her.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said, his eyes trained on hers. Without warning he leaned in and kissed her right cheek.

What...he had _apologized_? Sherlock Holmes?

Her thoughts whirled about as the first tear fell, freshly on her cheek. Abruptly she turned, walking quickly to the restroom.

"Molly wait-," she heard him call after her, but she couldn't stop. She had to get away. She grabbed the handle, twisted it, opened the door and closed it behind her, leaning her full weight on it as the sobbing started.

He thought she was ridiculous. He saw right through her. And he would never, never feel the same way. So he tormented her and she just couldn't take anything else this evening.

She reached for a tissue and walked to the sink. Looking in the mirror directly above she dabbed at her eyes, trying to wipe up the trails of mascara.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Molly," Sherlock started from the other side.

"Molly, may I come in?"

Molly snorted to herself and rolled her eyes, still shining from the tears. Of course she would let him in. Because he was Sherlock Holmes and she was Molly Hooper, and she would do anything he asked of her.

"Molly," he said again, more gently.

Biting her lip, she reached her hand for the doorknob and twisted.

Sherlock didn't look surprised but averted his gaze when he saw the tracks of the tears on her cheeks. Looking behind him and wanting privacy he pulled the door shut behind himself.

He sighed and began speaking slowly, as if he was putting extra effort into each word to avoid hurting her further.

"Molly...I am an idiot," he started, regarding her. She stood in profile view several feet from him still looking at herself in the mirror.

"No, Sherlock, you are quite the opposite," she said, looking down, fiddling with the tissue between her hands. "So now you know," she continued, smiling ruefully at her own comment.

He cleared his throat and spoke again.

"I have known for some time now, Molly."

Her eyes met his. Although he was mostly devoid of emotion, it made him almost sick to see her eyes, still shining with tears, that he was the cause of. He didn't want to hurt her.

He reached his hand up at the same time he took a step towards her, catching a fresh tear falling from her eye. She let him, then turned away, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks as he brought his hand back down.

"It's silly, really," she spoke again. "I am quite unremarkable in every way as you have pointed out and you-," her eyes met his and softened. "Well-you're the most remarkable man I know."

His head dropped as he looked at the floor. He felt terrible. He hadn't counted on any woman falling in love with him. Certainly not. And all those terrible things he had just said. And she thought he was the most wonderful man in the world. He was an idiot.

It was almost as if she could read his thoughts, for she walked directly in front of him, her back to the sink and mirror. Her hand trembling, she brought it up to his face, gently pushing so she tilted his head back. His brow was knitted but he looked directly at her.

"I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly sor-," he started, but no sound came out for her lips were suddenly on his. They were soft and warm and fuller than he had originally thought.

In a split second he decided he wasn't going to deny himself this part of the human experience any longer.

He wanted her to know that he appreciated her. He wanted her to know he was sorry. He wanted to give her anything and everything she wanted that was within his power. For she was loyal to him. She loved him. He refused to hurt her.

His left arm went around her back and he pressed himself against her, his right arm supporting him against the sink. His mouth probed hers, his tongue finding her warmer one and twining around it. She let out a small sigh in between their mouths meeting and it ignited a fire straight down to his groin.

Their kissing became heated, feverish and she ran her hands through his hair and down to grip his shoulders. He thrust his hips against hers roughly and she gasped, feeling him hard beneath his trousers.

He pulled back and brushed her hair behind her shoulder, kissing where her neck met her shoulder and up to her ear. He could hear her breathing become shallow, ragged, as her pulse sped up. She pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him to the side of her neck.

Still supporting himself on his right hand, he gripped her tightly with his left, in an instant, lifting her and sitting her on the edge of the sink.

She was startled that he had been able to lift her and let out a small sound, like a mewl as she spread her legs and gripped him by the hips, pulling him to the vee between her knees.

His hands went to her still covered breasts and worked the top of her dress down to her waist as she pushed his jacket off his shoulders. She reached behind herself quickly to unhook her bra as he pulled the shirt tails out of his trousers. As she let her bra drop, his breath hitched. He stared at her breasts for a moment and said, "Molly Hooper. You are simply lovely."

She reached a hand around his head and pulled him to her mouth as his fingers found her nipple and tweaked it gently. Her head rolled back as she sighed, more audibly this time, not caring who heard what. Bringing her head back up and his mouth back to hers, she brought her hands to his chest, working furiously at the buttons of his shirt. It was he who shrugged out of it, moving his arms through it as quickly as he could before he let it drop away to the floor.

He put a hand to just above her breast and pushed. Molly was nervous for a moment, and didn't understand what he was doing, but slowly let herself be guided back. He was simply pushing her head back against the mirror. She looked at him through half-lidded eyes as she felt his hands go under her skirt, find her knickers, hook his long fingers in each side and pull them roughly away from her, dropping them to the floor.

Neither spoke, but kept their eyes trained on the other as he unbuttoned his trousers slowly. She could see he was also excited, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She reached her hands behind her and pressed them against the wall, pushing herself closer to him, an unspoken signal to continue.

He pushed his undershorts down and grasped his member, stroking it slowly up and down. Her eyes glazed and she almost panted. He was perfect. She arched her back and stared at him, daring him to find fault with her. He moved to the edge of the sink, pulling her to him roughly, as he gave her a simple, tender kiss.

He looked down and her eyes followed as his fingers traced patterns on the insides of her thighs, closing the distance between them slowly. Her eyes closed and he moved to her neck, kissing her there as he grabbed a hold of her hand and placed it around his length.

"Sherlock," she spoke, her voice no more than a whisper, and it was all the encouragement he needed.

He drove himself home. Hard.

Molly let out a strangled cry as his swiftness had caught her off guard. He soothed her, speaking into her ear, continuing to kiss her neck, his hand coming up to cup her breast and play with the nipple.

Her nails tightened on his shoulders as he drew himself out slowly before pushing back in all the way. His hands reached behind her to cup her bottom and pull her onto him roughly.

Every time he pushed back inside her, pulling her to him, she gasped. The edge of the sink ledge bit into his thighs but he didn't care. He was otherwise occupied, presently.

She ran her legs behind his back, pulling him in closer and her mouth sought his out. She could feel the pleasure building inside her. Everything he was doing was sending her over the edge. His rough, insistent thrusts were completely unexpected but very welcome.

She was crying out now, arching against him and she could feel his motions become more spastic. He was near as well. He ran his hand to where there bodies joined and sought out the spot he knew was there. He played with the small nub of flesh he found, refusing to finish before her, and shut his eyes tightly.

Very shortly thereafter he felt her body clamp down around his and pull him with her, over the edge.

Then he thought nothing.

* * *

><p>Molly was laying back against the sink, almost flat against it, and Sherlock Holmes was on top of her, bent at the waist, his head resting on her stomach. She could feel the sweat from his brow against her skin. Or maybe that was her. She didn't know and didn't care.<p>

His hot breath ghosted over the tender flesh of her stomach making the skin prickle. Gradually she felt his breathing return to normal. She was now supporting herself on her elbows, which was very uncomfortable, but she didn't want to risk making him move. If he wanted to rest on her, she would let him. As long as he wanted.

He placed his arms on either side of her and pressed his weight against the lip of the sink, raising himself off of her. He looked down at her, a blush covering her breasts and face and he smiled at her, his eyelids heavy.

He pulled his trousers back up and fastened them, then offered her a hand. She reached for him and he pulled her to an upright position before gently helping her feet meet the floor.

"My legs feel like jelly," she said, smiling at him.

And would you believe that Sherlock smiled back, pleased with himself.

"I hope I did not disappoint," he spoke as he busied himself with his shirt and reached for his jacket.

She looked at him startled he had questioned his performance. "Oh no. No, not at all. That was...quite wonderful, really."

He looked down and seemed almost embarrassed for a moment. Then her eyes followed his hand and realized he was handing her back her lacy pants.

He cleared his throat as he offered them to her. She took them, blushing, and turned away from him as she stepped into them. Once that was done, she pulled up the top of her dress and straightened it.

"Perhaps I should leave first?," he spoke quickly. "I should like to preserve your modesty."

Molly blushed again as she ran her hands through her hair, fixing it.

"Most kind of you, Sherlock."

He shrugged into his jacket and his hand reached for the door. He turned back to her, almost as if he couldn't fathom what had just transpired, looked directly at her and said, "Merry Christmas once more, Molly Hooper."

This time her eyes shone, but not from tears. She smiled at him as he worked the knob and left the room.

"Merry Christmas to you as well, Mr. Holmes."


End file.
